Fallen Branches

By E. B. Naddaff

ﾠRachel Brenham, bright, beautiful and confident, returns home from boarding school with visions ahead of her time about her role as a modern woman in the quickly evolving social and industrial scene in England's Buckingham midlands during the 1800s.

ﾠ

Her contemporary views are quickly put to question as her wealthy father, whose hidden motives threaten to unravel Rachel's new visions of herself, has arranged a marriage to her childhood nemesis.ﾠﾠ Raucous, irresponsible, and often drunk, Emory Guersten is the ultimate opposition to the future Rachel hopes to establish.

ﾠ

Determined not to be reduced to her former insecure self, Rachel approaches her wedding day with unyielding resolve, but she is affronted when the handsome Emory fails to materialize on the cold, snowy day of their nuptials, sending a proxy to stand in for him instead.ﾠﾠ Burning at this humiliation, Rachel embarks on a challenging journey to maintain her dignity, her marriage, and ultimately her family legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682130674

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

In the blue-gray brightness of dawn’s first light, a striped cat, returning from nocturnal roving, skittered over the wall that surrounded Lord Roderick Merrington’s London townhouse. Nearby, a saddled stallion waited patiently by the wall. Though untethered and free to roam, the animal merely shifted his weight at the sight of the cat, the sound of his hooves echoing eerily in the predawn stillness. The mighty beast was obedient, and his restlessness came from fatigue and hunger. Raising his head, he snorted once and then emitted a soft whicker.

In an elegant bedroom upstairs, scented with sandalwood and jasmine, Emory Guersten heard the stallion’s signal and was roused from slumber. He withdrew an arm from under his sleeping companion and threw back the covers. The room was chilled, for the hearth held only the ashes of last night’s warm fire. The beauteous blonde beside him stretched her ripe body, lying with her eyes closed, but now, she too was awake.

Stay awhile, she whispered as she caressed his strong body with one hand without opening her eyes. The handsome man removed her cool fingers one by one, though he found her supple ministrations not at all unpleasant.

I must go, he said, drinking in her soft-skinned loveliness with passionate eyes. Did you not hear my friend’s call?

This friend’s call is the only one I hear, she replied seductively, reaching for him again.

Naked, Emory stepped quickly from the bed and out of her clutches, clambering for his clothes before he changed his mind.

Her violet eyes still heavy with sleep, Lady Edwina Merrington watched her lover dress just as she had so many times before. This night of passion was over, but there would be others. When will you come again? she asked.

He shrugged. Your husband is in residence too, my sweet, and we must be discreet. Besides, I must return to the midlands this week for certain; it’s been a month at least since I’ve been to Guersten Hall to see my father. He’s probably livid by now!

Naked herself, Edwina slipped from beneath the satin sheets and crossed the room to Emory’s side just before he buttoned his breeches. Won’t you give me what I want before you go?

Emory chuckled and pushed her hand away, no easy task. I know what you want, Edwina, and why, but I’ll not leave my calling card this morn! I’ve sired no bastards thus far  . . . Nor will I.

But the babe wouldn’t be a bastard, the blonde hastened to say. My Lord Merrington is prepared to claim any child I bear as his own  . . . his heir. Think of it as insurance, my sweet, for me. Someday I’ll be a wealthy widow. When that time comes, you can claim us both again.

Emory kissed his beautiful paramour one last time and drew a silky robe about her shoulders. Always planning ahead, aren’t you, Edwina? You and your insurance! Take care your collateral doesn’t turn blue in this cold room, he added, slapping her backside soundly. Go back to bed. I’ll let myself out, he added, pulling on his boots.

The handsome man departed quickly, and Lady Merrington went to her window and watched until he reappeared in the courtyard below. He turned, mounted, waved once, and then clattered away. You’re a fool, Emory Guersten, she thought idly, before returning to the warmth of her bed. A fool!

At the other end of the big house, unseen by either of them, Lord Merrington sat sleepless in a chair by his window, one bandaged foot propped upon a footstool before him. He looked down at his limp member, lying useless against his thigh. Only Merrington and his physician knew what ailed it, and as he watched his wife’s lover ride away, his own thoughts paralleled hers. You’re a fool, Guersten, m’lad! We both are!

In the town of Portsmouth, near the sea, many miles away from Merrington’s towering townhouse, a foggy gray mist, heavy and damp, greeted early risers. Fog was a natural occurrence here, and few took notice of it. Snug inside Miss Phillipps’s Academy, one of the brown-clad matrons climbed the stairs and tapped on a door on the second floor. Are you awake, Miss Brenham? The matron listened for a moment, and then tapped again. Rachel?

Inside, Rachel Brenham stirred from her slumber and went to the door. Yes, she answered. I’m awake. Is it time for first bell already?

No, my dear, but I wonder if you’d pop upstairs to see that new girl, Martinson. She’s been whimpering half the night.

Oh, the poor child, said Rachel, concerned. Of course I’ll go, Matron. Just give me a moment to dress. And don’t fret about her any longer. I’ll take her to the kitchen. Perhaps Cook will make us some cocoa.

In the midlands, far away to the north, the early morning sun was finally rising, spreading slowly across the countryside, taking the last elusive shadows of dawn with it. Its rays found Brenham Manor, touching first the dove-gray pantiles of the roof, then the long mullioned windows and lastly the soft-pink bricks.

The manor was newer than most of its neighbors in this part of England, and thirty years of warm summers and harsh winters had taken no toll. It was a pretty house, fronted by a tiny courtyard that suggested two separate wings while in reality there was only the main house, two stories high. Two long verandas ran along its sides, their roofs supported by decorative columns. In the summer, wisteria and purple clematis climbed those columns, spreading fingers of color across the tiles, but the vines were withered now, for it was late October, and the nights had become cold and crisp, hinting of an early winter.

Benjamin Brenham, Rachel’s father, had stirred long before the first sunbeams had danced along the floor of his bedroom. He slept alone, had these many years, for his early habits greatly disturbed his wife. At the rear of the house, she now occupied a room of her own, although it was joined to his by a little sitting room that they had shared jointly through the early years of their marriage. Slowly though, Benjamin’s accounts and papers had spread to its very corners, and it was now his study. Rarely did Louisa trespass there.

A faint odor of cheroot lingered throughout Benjamin’s paneled and masculine bedroom. By his edict, the maids did little here, only dusting and changing the bed linens. It was an arrangement that suited Benjamin just fine, for it was a comfortable room, and a pleasant one, and he was damned if he would have it fussed over. He finished dressing, pulling on calf-length riding boots, and hurriedly went through the study and out into the hall. Although Louisa’s door was ajar, her room was still dark and quiet.

At the top of the stairs, Benjamin passed by Rachel’s empty room and the smaller one occupied by Rebecca, his youngest daughter. Next to it, Lydia Blackburn slumbered on, long released from early risings by lack of duties. Lydia had been in Benjamin’s employ for nineteen years, first as nursemaid to both his daughters and then as governess. She filled neither role now but was such welcome company to Louisa that Benjamin kept her on, for his business required that he remain away from Brenham Manor for weeks at a time.

Downstairs, bright sunlight splashed across the entrance hall, reaching nearly to the bottom of the staircase. The wainscoting took on a honey-colored hue in its golden light, and Benjamin noted it and was pleased. It was mahogany, imported from Honduras, and it had cost him a fortune when he built the manor. Oh, he remembered, how he had fumed over the cost! But the farsighted architect had insisted upon using it and no other, and Benjamin long ago recognized that the man had been right; the tones of the wood were exquisite in any light, but breathtaking at sunrise.

In the tiny family dining room, Mrs. Crocker, his cook, had tea and a basket of warm buns waiting for Benjamin, and anxious to be out of the house, he consumed the light meal standing. When the gray-haired cook returned to her kitchen, Benjamin followed her there.

I’m sure I need not remind you that there will be only Lydia for supper tonight, Agatha. The rest of us are going to Guersten Hall to dine.

Lordy, sir, said Agatha with a motion of her hand. I knew that about ten minutes after the invite came. Why, Rebecca tripped in here, petticoats a-flying, swooning with delight at the thought of spending an entire evening in the company of that handsome Edward Guersten.

Edward! Benjamin was somewhat surprised, having thought that matter long since put to rest. But he made no further comment and, turning, crossed the blue-tiled floor in long strides to leave the kitchen by its rear door. Drying her hands on a muslin cloth, Agatha watched as he made his way through the storeroom, pungent with the mixed fragrance of rich spices and aged cheeses. Really, she said aloud to herself, noting Benjamin’s quick step. Unless I miss my guess the master is a bit excited about the evening’s invitation himself.

Agatha was right. Benjamin was excited, and once outside, he moved quickly across the open courtyard, still cool and shaded at this early hour. Clearing the end of the wall that enclosed Rachel’s garden, he grumbled, finding his mount not waiting.

But the groom had already left the stables, and when the lad saw the master, he nodded politely, dropping the rein he held. Benjamin tapped his riding crop against his boot top, and the old horse raised her head. Spying Benjamin, the mare trotted to his side and stood quietly, waiting to be nuzzled.

Patch was a skewbald and none too pretty at that, with random white patches splashing her gray coat. In fact, one fell haphazardly over an eye, giving the mare a somewhat cockeyed appearance. The animal was ten years old and had come to Brenham Manor as a filly when Rachel was just a child. At that time, for some still-unexplained reason, Rachel was quite jittery about riding, and when Emory Guersten had taken a bloody spill practically at her feet one day, the girl’s apprehensions turned to outright fear.

Rachel was eight then, and Benjamin had purchased the gentle skewbald for her ninth birthday, hoping to erase her fears. They were too deeply ingrained, however. While Rachel had given the animal its name, such as it was, that was about the extent of her relationship with the mare. When coerced, she rode Patch the length of the circular drive and back and often even insisted on a lead, and so Benjamin had taken to riding Patch himself. Eventually, man and beast became attached to each other, and between them now existed a camaraderie of sorts that Benjamin found pleasant, though admittedly he was not much of a horseman.

Once mounted, the horse turned away without prodding and headed for the open fields. They went up an incline, edging toward a well-trodden path that led past a copse of almost leafless birches. The sun felt good against Benjamin’s back, and clearing a thicket of evergreens, they crested a last ridge, emerging from a stand of mature pines to come upon a rock-strewn promontory, one familiar to both of them.

Whenever Benjamin Brenham was in residence at his midland manor house, he came here, sometimes even when the weather was disagreeable, in fact. The little bluff sat high above the terrain of the surrounding countryside, and from it Benjamin could see across to the neighboring estate of Guersten Hall, looking down on its tall windows and symmetrical roof tiles. Below the house, broad lawns swept down a rambling incline dominated by large clumps of now dormant rhododendrons. At the foot of the slope, the land bottomed out, and here a gurgling brook had been dammed with boulders just enough to slow the rushing of the waters. The resulting pool was not large, but it completed the pastoral composition of the landscape nicely. An octagonal summerhouse squatted nearby, nearly hidden from view in summer by bowers of lilacs and rhodendrons, its domed roof covered by vines of trumpet flower, now all bare and snaky.

On the far side of the oval pool, the path rambled on once again, curving away into a dense stand of evergreens. The children had long ago christened those trees Small Wood. That wood and the wide fields beyond were not part of Benjamin’s holdings, for the spring-fed brook marked a natural boundary between Brenham Manor and the great estate owned by George Guersten.

Patch stirred beneath him. With an easy movement, Benjamin dismounted, stretching his long legs as the horse moved away to graze lazily on the last of the summer grass. In a distant field, a small flock of birds suddenly took to the air, and Benjamin watched them soar together through the cloudless blue sky.

Though not particularly handsome, Brenham was a tall man with clear gray eyes and finely chiseled features that made him attractive nonetheless. His jaw, firm and square, was clean shaven, his hair still thick although well streaked with gray. Only his long sideburns belied his years; they were almost completely white.

Benjamin was nearing sixty, a strong man with a robust constitution. His figure was still as lithe and lean as it had been at thirty, and many a portly gentleman at his club envied that straight back and light step. His figure gave great style to the latest in gentlemen’s fashion, and often his London colleagues hastened to Crofts, his tailor, asking to be turned out exactly like Benjamin Brenham.

One of London’s most successful businessmen, Benjamin was also one of its wealthiest. While his demeanor was not unpleasant, it masked a strong will and a tongue that could be harsh. He was a hard taskmaster; at his warehouses each man had few doubts about what was expected of him. Service at Brenham Manor was no different. Hard work meant success, reasoned Benjamin, and his own appetite for hard work was insatiable. It, along with his application to duty and a considerable measure of good fortune, had enabled him to become wealthy while still a young man.

The morning sun rose higher, and dragging her rein, Patch moved farther away as Benjamin settled himself in the sun, knowing that the mare would not wander. He propped his back against a craggy boulder and sat quietly, gazing across the open space toward Guersten Hall.

What he wouldn’t give to own that estate! He loved it, more than his own, if the truth was known! But Guersten Hall was not for sale, Benjamin knew, and never would be. The Hall had been in the Guersten family for more than four hundred years now and would continue to be passed from father to son in unending succession. The present George Guersten had two unmarried sons, and the eldest would inherit when the old man died. And yet, fully aware that the estate was unattainable, Benjamin continued to come here, sitting for hours on end whenever he could, hypnotized by the view. The big house beckoned to him, it seemed, and he was at a loss to explain the strange feeling that oftentimes overtook him. He already had most of the things that men worship—money, position, a family, and a grand estate of his own. Despite it all, still, there were times when he felt rootless.

Sitting there, Benjamin’s mind wandered; he mused about his life, every event sharply in focus. Years before, he never dared hope that he would be considered gentry, almost, with a manor and a London townhouse of his own, for his beginnings had been rather common. He had never known his father; not that he was a bastard, mind you, for Benjamin had a cracked and yellowed parchment that proved otherwise. But his father had been a seaman, and as many seamen do, he had simply never returned to the young woman from the docks who had borne his child. In all likelihood, he was dead, lost at sea, perhaps.

Benjamin’s boyhood had been spent near the docks, where he started his first full employment at fourteen as a roustabout for Jonathan Wittenham. Wittenham was a wealthy London bachelor whose corporate enterprise was a hodgepodge of import-export warehouses, ratty tenements, stinking breweries, and a motley collection of dockside brothels and taverns. The young boy had especially liked the warehouses, fascinated with shipments bound for and coming from most of the far corners of the world. There were teas, spices, and gossamer silks from the Orient, fantastic marbles from Italy, wines from Spain, and great merchant ships were loaded with steel from Sheffield, wool from Bradford, and fabrics from the looms of Manchester, all bound for the new nation across the ocean.

Yet a considerable portion of Jonathan Wittenham’s wealth came from ill-gotten means, squeezed from the misery of London’s teeming slums. About the time Benjamin turned seventeen, Wittenham recognized his intelligence, and also the fact that the lad was trustworthy. Promoted, Benjamin became a clerk in Jonathan’s dingy Thames-side office, an ill-lit place with unwashed windows, reeking of sour stout from a nearby brewery. Benjamin worked hard, and though lacking in formal education, he could read and write a legible hand, and most importantly, he was quick; very soon he was entrusted with Wittenham’s brewery collections.

Naturally, the docks were familiar ground to Benjamin, but as always, he was benumbed by the hopelessness of the place. Often as he made his assigned rounds, he was set upon and spit at, for in the slums, Jonathan Wittenham was much disliked. Benjamin was especially moved by the children, ragged urchins with distended bellies whose mothers spread-eagled for the price of an ale or rotgut gin. The young man hated them all—Wittenham, the unkempt and disheartened trollops, and the bedraggled poor, who made little or no effort to improve their own lot, or that of their children.

Wisely, Benjamin kept good accounts, and when he was twenty-two, he was able to give Wittenham proof that Shipsley, his chief clerk, was pocketing money from the rental accounts. Shipsley was sacked that very day, and Benjamin was quickly ensconced into the senior position. Peculiarly, and despite the great difference in their ages, Wittenham believed that he and Benjamin were friends, and since the circumstances much favored Benjamin, he let the old man think what he would.

In the months that followed, Benjamin was welcomed at Jonathan’s townhouse, often taking supper with the old man and his young niece. Quiet, shy, cloistered by her uncle, Louisa Wycliffe openly adored Benjamin. She was Jonathan’s only living relative, the daughter of a deceased sister. She was also Jonathan’s chink in the wall of respectability, for none of his more genteel clients knew of his squalid enterprises. Few would have approved; while they might not make any effort to aid the poor and homeless themselves, neither would they think to turn a profit off such misery.

In no time at all, Benjamin began escorting Louisa to the theater or to an occasional Assembly and enjoying carriage outings in St. James Park. Even so, during this period of his life, Benjamin lived an almost temperate existence, saving his sovereigns and spending only what was necessary for clothing and lodging, for he was patently determined to be wealthy one day, although at that particular time he envied no one, not even Wittenham and his wealth. Driven by determination, he was willing to bide his time, taking his opportunities as they appeared and making them when they did not.

The course of Benjamin Brenham’s young life was quite suddenly altered, however, when one rainy spring day a consignment of goods was readied for haulage to Guersten Hall, in the southern midlands. The roads were muddy, the shipment valuable, and to ensure the safe delivery of the cargo, Wittenham instructed Benjamin to accompany the heavy dray to its destination. Benjamin naturally obeyed, and he was never to be the same again, for no other singular event in his life ever affected him as profoundly as his first glimpse of Guersten Hall that late afternoon in May. The young man who had heretofore envied no one, coveted nothing, suddenly wanted everything!

Now, up on the bluff, Benjamin’s reverie was broken when the skewbald nuzzled her master’s shoulder. Yes, I know, he murmured. ’Tis time we went down.

The mare waited patiently, for she knew her master never left this spot willingly, or quickly. Scrambling lightly to his feet, Benjamin gazed again across the open space toward Guersten Hall and, shielding his eyes with his hands, searched out the huge chestnut tree that marked the pillared entrance to the mansion’s drive. From his position up on the bluff, he looked down on the great house, its detailing clear despite the distance. Rose-colored pantiles were seen, and the chimneys were plainly visible, silhouetted blackly against the sky. Still unwilling to leave, Benjamin draped an elbow around the boulder and, standing motionless, remembered that strange sense of predestination he had felt that long-ago spring day. He had known then just what it was that had troubled him so often, had clearly identified that indistinct sense of not belonging, which had haunted him wherever he went. Benjamin had returned to London with every facet of that journey to the midlands etched forever in his mind. All could be recalled at will—the crunch of the gravel in the drive, the scent of the early lilacs, the glint of the sun on the windowpanes. He belonged there; that much he knew! And he knew, too, that he must somehow find a way to go there, live there, become part of those lovely midlands. There, he felt certain; he could establish some sense of permanency in his life. He became determined; he would find an opportunity, or make one!

It had come about both ways. Taking stock of his position in life, Benjamin realized that a simple clerk could work half a lifetime and barely save enough to keep a humble cottage somewhere, let alone a great midland manor, even if such a property were to become available. Only a few days later, he escorted Louisa to yet another of those boring afternoon tea dances, and during the intermission, while she waited demurely under a potted palm, Benjamin dutifully fetched refreshments. A small group of nattily dressed dandies pressed around the punch bowl, and he had to wait his turn. Nearby, two elderly gentlemen scrutinized the young fops disdainfully, caring not that they might be overhead.

Look at them! Prancing around like barnyard cocks, hoping to be noticed by some fair lass about to become an heiress.

Benjamin remembered freezing in his tracks. Of course! Louisa! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Louisa was Jonathan Wittenham’s ward and niece. She was also his only living relative. Louisa Wycliffe would be an heiress one day!

Determined, that summer Benjamin became even more attentive, pressing his suit with great subtlety, a not-unpleasant task, for Louisa was not without her virtues, and she delighted in Benjamin’s attentions. And while he wished Wittenham no ill, the following February the old man developed a racking cough, which worsened rapidly, and by midsummer, he was confined to his bed. Benjamin found himself making frequent trips to the small but elegant house near Waterloo Place, bringing the old man’s ledgers to his bedside, and through the late summer, he discovered firsthand the enormity of the Wittenham bailiwick. He made himself invaluable to Wittenham, and when the old man died before winter came round again, Benjamin knew he had assessed the situation correctly. Louisa Wycliffe did indeed become an heiress, and the heiress turned to him for comfort and advice, for she had been devoted to her uncle.

Benjamin and Louisa were married not too long afterward, and as she had bent to her uncle’s will completely, so she gave in to her new husband, whom she adored. To the extent that he could, Benjamin returned that adoration, and while Louisa found no fault with him whatever, neither did she find him to be passionate. Though he remained attentive, Benjamin was simply far too serious for outward demonstrations of love. Louisa did not object, and she retired to the background as Benjamin took her uncle’s place as head of the business.

He turned his immediate attention to the many brothels and taverns in Wittenham’s holdings, disposing of them quickly and profitably. Even so, Benjamin’s first year as head of the huge conglomerate was a difficult one, for all his familiarity with the extent of it. He spent long hours poring over the thick ledgers in an attempt to plot a future course for the business and, finally, deciding he needed a trustworthy agent, retained the services of a solicitor, one Joshua Durklin, a partner in an established Chancery Lane firm. Early on, Durklin and Sharpe, Esq., had assessed the changes that industry and the railroads would bring to England in the thirties and forties. Their firm welcomed the new wave of businessmen openly, and Benjamin and his newfound fortune were no exception. Durklin urged Benjamin to join the Pembroke, a newly chartered men’s club at Temple Bar whose membership included many of the wealthiest men in London. The connections could only be helpful, Durklin told Benjamin, and they were just that, as it turned out, for only a month after joining the club, Benjamin’s dream of becoming part of the midlands was realized.

At the club, he overheard a conversation, learning that old William Guersten was contemplating the sale of two choice pieces of property. One, a hunting lodge in the north country, with vast forest acreage, held absolutely no interest for Benjamin. The second, however, was a tract of rich pastureland in Buckinghamshire that actually abutted the boundaries of Guersten Hall! Benjamin was beside himself! He instructed Durklin to move quickly, to make the purchase, at any price.

Ready capital made all the difference, and Benjamin’s dream was realized! Soon afterward, he contracted with an architect to construct the present brick manor house. When Louisa found herself with child that spring, Benjamin became adamant that his son would be born in the midlands. They moved into the house even before the interior work was finished.

The birth had proven difficult though—Louisa’s labor long and agonizing. And the longed-for son did not survive his first hour. In the months that followed, Louisa became withdrawn and even more quiet, overwhelmed by the child’s death. As for himself, Benjamin remembered, he had become bitter, hurling himself into his work as never before. In his heart he began to believe they would be childless forever, and for eight long years such was the case. Then, the year Benjamin turned forty, Rachel was born, and less than two years later, Louisa gave birth to another daughter, named Rebecca. Again, Louisa suffered greatly during her confinements, and Benjamin realized that there would be no male heir. Bitterly, he resented the loss of his son and resented too, without being aware of it, that both surviving infants were girls.

Beside him, Patch snorted suddenly, and Benjamin turned in time to spot a small brown rabbit dart into the thicket on the far side of the boulder. He realized with a start that the sun was quite high now; he had remained on the bluff longer than usual. Still, he felt good, excited about the coming dinner party. It had been some years since he and Louisa had last been invited to Guersten Hall, and he wondered what exactly George Guersten had meant when he had referred to a matter I wish to discuss with you. Perhaps it had to do with the wooden bridge that spanned the brook; it might be in need of some repair, and the work should be done before the onset of winter. Yes, that must be it, thought Benjamin, shaking his head. Since Rachel had gone to school, the Brenhams had seen little of any of the Guerstens, save Edward. Edward! The idea of that jackanapes sneaking into the summerhouse to meet Rebecca! Still, Benjamin admitted to himself, that vixen would entice any man—and Edward was a man now. Shaking his head again, he mounted Patch and hurried down the ridge.

Intending at first to return directly to the house, Benjamin decided at the last moment to ride to the bridge and examine it. It wouldn’t do for George Guersten to think that he was not attending to his end of their bargain. Years before, they had agreed that Benjamin would make all necessary repairs but that he was welcome to cut the needed timbers in Great Guersten Wood. That deep forest lay in the northernmost corner of George’s estate, its encroaching tree line held back by wide fields bordered with hawthorn hedges.

At the bridge, Benjamin completed his inspection, then turned and cantered back up the road toward the rear of the manor house. Behind it stood the stables and a large barn, and byres and pens for hens and pigs. The dairy cows were already in the pasture, grazing contentedly, even though the grass was sparse.

Benjamin whistled loudly. The groom heard the master’s call and came around the corner of the barn, waving. He gave a loud whistle of his own, and obediently Patch trotted off.

Striding across the lawn, Benjamin went into the house to find the morning room and library empty. He went up the stairs two at a time and strode into the sewing room, where Lydia was trying to pin Rebecca into a gown of blue velveteen.

Father! Tell me! Do you like it? How do I look? she cried.

You look lovely, my dear, as usual, Benjamin said to her. Pointing with his riding crop, he turned to Louisa. Isn’t that neckline a trifle low for one so young?

Before Louisa could respond, Lydia let out a loud sigh. Child! If you don’t stop squirming, you’re going to get stuck again! she admonished through a mouthful of pins.

I am not a child! Rebecca replied, stamping her foot for emphasis. I’m seventeen!

As always, Benjamin smiled at his youngest daughter. She was a little minx, spoiled beyond redemption, but she was lovely, and she could always cull a smile from him. Rebecca was slender and fragile, so much so that she appeared elfin almost, with dark shining curls piled atop her head. The blue velvet enhanced the hue of her eyes, dark blue, like her mother’s, fringed with long thick lashes. That Rebecca was excited was obvious, fidgeting and turning, with two bright spots of color flushing her cheeks. Lydia threw up her hands in despair, muttering to herself. She had been on her knees for more than half an hour now, and if the dress were to be finished by early evening, Rebecca would simply have to cooperate. With a wave of his hand, and another smile, Benjamin left the sewing room and went down the hall to his study.

Louisa followed him there, entering just as Benjamin settled himself at the polished mahogany desk, its top already well strewn with papers.

Can Agatha bring you anything from Coltenham? She’s going in to visit her daughter who hasn’t been well since the birth of that last child. She will be back before dark, and Lydia will be content with cold ham, and a little peace and quiet to go with it.

Just the mail  . . . But isn’t she away rather late?

A short time later Benjamin saw the cook leave the yard in a little trap, with Rodney Stanton at the reins.

Rodney was Agatha’s son-in-law. She had approached the master about finding employment for him at the manor some years before. Once, Rodney had steady work as a liveried coachman, but many a good teamster had lost the source of his income when the railroads started carrying passengers, and the winding tracks had finally overtaken Rodney’s route between Peterborough and Norwich, on the coast. With seven children to feed, only Agatha’s presence at Brenham Manor had enabled the Stantons to make ends meet.

Rodney’s position was officially that of stable master, but he doubled as gardener and handyman, too, and his wife occasionally assisted Agatha in the kitchen whenever the Brenhams entertained, fattening their income even more. Benjamin expected full measure from them all, but he paid fairly for it. No one had ever called him niggardly.

Only recently, Agatha’s granddaughter Ferne had come to Brenham Manor to live and work, sharing one of the little rooms under the attic eaves with Mellie, the other housemaid. The oldest of the Stantons’ daughters, Ferne was fifteen and had been engaged by Louisa partly because she knew the Stantons needed the extra money, but mostly because she, always considerate of others, knew that Agatha was now nearing sixty.

Hired as cook-housekeeper when Brenham Manor was still under construction, Agatha Crocker had moved her family from Aylesbury to Coltenham thirty years ago. There was only Bessie now; Agatha’s husband was long dead, and her only son had been killed in the mines while still a lad. Quick and efficient, Agatha was loved by them all, but she knew her place and kept to her rooms when her work was done. Behind the serving pantry, she had a tiny sitting room with an adjoining bedroom, the two rooms warmed by a potbellied coal stove. Even Benjamin, upon occasion, had warmed his hands at that little stove.

The chattering in the sewing room went on the better part of the morning, but eventually the house quieted, and as the sun climbed even higher in the October sky, the study became flooded with light. The Aubusson carpet, with its bright florals, lent soft color to the room while Benjamin busied himself with his accounts, unaware of the passage of time. About two o’clock, Louisa returned to the study carrying a small tray of bread and cheese, with a steaming mug of mulled wine and an assortment of fresh fruit.

I’m sorry to be so long, she said, offering him the tray. I insisted Rebecca lie down and rest awhile, and it took longer than I expected to get her settled.

Rebecca had been a seven-month infant, small and puny. No one had been more surprised that the scrawny babe survived her first winter than the doctor himself, but his subsequent predictions unfortunately proved all too correct. Rebecca was never strong, and always her health had to be guarded zealously. Each rigorous winter left its mark on the frail child, sick frequently with long bouts marked by racking coughs and high fevers that left her weak and lifeless. Late spring and summer usually found her recuperating slowly, soaking up the bright sunshine, strengthening lethargic limbs. Her last serious brush with death had been at fifteen, and her recovery then had been slow and agonizing  . . . and incomplete.

Through it all, though, Rebecca’s personality remained vivacious, ebullient, yet she was spoiled and demanding at the same time. When bedridden, she was terrified to be left alone, and Louisa and Lydia, with Agatha spelling them, spent long hours by her bedside. Bleary eyed and fatigued, they sat even while Rebecca slept, lest she awaken alone to have that horrible cough triggered by fear. Yet once her strength was renewed, Rebecca pleaded to be allowed to come downstairs or go out of doors, and her cajoling usually convinced some member of the household to set aside better judgment and grant her wishes. Benjamin was especially susceptible to the girl’s wiles, his sternness vanishing at the first sight of that radiant smile.

She will not sleep, said Louisa now, handing her husband a linen square. "Of that I am certain. She is so excited about this evening she can hardly contain herself. All I have heard all morning is Edward  . . . Edward  . . . Edward!"

Hmm  . . . So I understand. Perhaps I should have another talk with her about that young man. I thought my wishes were made clear in that matter, but apparently I was mistaken.

I know, Louisa said softly. Every time a horseman passes by the house, she goes flying through the halls in a most unladylike manner, thinking it might be Edward. Just the same, Benjamin, she is young and fancies herself in love, and I find it difficult to be harsh with her.

Benjamin studied his wife, more attractive now than at any time during their long married life. As a young woman, Louisa had always been thin and small bosomed, had worn her dark hair in a severe chignon. Now, at fifty-one, it was more gray than his, and she dressed it in soft curls that framed her face, and extra pounds had added flattering fullness to her figure.

Come. Sit by my desk while I lunch, he said on impulse, his voice suddenly gentle. That gentleness was noticed by Louisa immediately; raising her head, she glanced at her husband and took the chair he indicated.

You know, she said, settling herself, I always suspected it was Rachel who was smitten with Edward. After all, they spent a great deal of time together as children when Rebecca was ill, and they shared many the same interests. I often wonder if you had not sent her away to school—

Edward stands to inherit nothing, Benjamin said rather tersely, interrupting her. He is second son, and the entire estate will go to Emory. It is the reason I discouraged Rebecca. It can come to nothing.

Rather abruptly Louisa stood up, crossing the room to stare blankly out the window. After a long moment, she turned to face her husband. "Just why did you send Rachel away?"

Her question momentarily stunned Benjamin. Louisa had never asked it before, not once in the five years Rachel had been away from home. Louisa had accepted his decision to pack the child off to school just as she accepted all his decisions, without question. She had voiced no objection even to the choice of the school itself, so far from Brenham Manor. Yet now, after all this time, she wanted to know.

Come, sit down, Louisa. Perhaps we should discuss this further.

Arranging her skirts about her, Louisa took her seat again. She watched as Benjamin paused to cover his bread with the sharp Leicestershire he enjoyed so. Do you recall the morning Rachel left for Portsmouth? he asked tenderly, sipping the still-warm wine. Do you remember the tears  . . . and the hysterics? It seemed then that all the child ever did was weep!

Louisa’s eyes brimmed and the room fell silent for a moment, as both of them recalled the pale bedraggled child who was literally thrust into the carriage that morning—her body too thin, her arms and legs too long, her brown hair lifeless and poker straight. And the tears! Weeping herself, Louisa had run from the drive even before the coach departed. Later, she had avoided Benjamin for days, causing the first real misunderstanding in their marriage, though she never questioned his judgment.

It was Lydia Blackburn who had accompanied Rachel to the new school in Portsmouth, near the sea. She had returned days later and taken to her bed. That child wept all the way to London, she reported. And just when I began to think she might stop, we would pass another milestone, and the tears would start anew.

But when the coach neared Portsmouth, Rachel had finally stopped sobbing, and at Miss Phillipps’s Academy, she had followed the matron up the stone steps, never looking back. Lydia had wept at that, struck by the child’s misery.

Now, in the sunny study, Louisa looked at her husband and nodded, without speaking, as Benjamin continued, his voice controlled and careful.

When Rachel was fourteen, I began to think about her future  . . . marriage, to be exact. I know she was young then, he added, noting Louisa’s look of surprise, but the girl is not exactly a beauty. A suitable marriage may have to be  . . . well, arranged.

Since both Rachel and Rebecca would inherit Benjamin’s fortune one day, he explained, it was imperative that the choice of husbands for them be considered carefully. He knew that nobility and aristocracy had no quarrel with arranged marriages, but not, if you please, with the daughters of merchants and tradesmen, bankers and businessmen, however wealthy they might be. No, they kept their titles, passing them between themselves like prizes. Oh, here and there some impoverished nobleman married off a daughter to a banker’s son, but no title went with the lass, and usually no dowry either.

Louisa interrupted. But just what does this have to do with your decision to send Rachel to Miss Phillipps’s? Even at fourteen, Rachel was intelligent and well read. Lydia has done a fine job as governess, and it is unfair to fault her because the two girls are so different. Perhaps because of her health we have spoiled Rebecca; she is headstrong and somewhat undisciplined, I’ll admit, but Rachel has always been withdrawn, preferring her books and music to company.

Benjamin quartered a fresh pear before answering, cutting it neatly with a small pearl-handled knife. I know I have everything most men ever want, Louisa, but I do not have sons. Unless the girls marry well and provide me with grandsons, all I have worked for ends with me.

Above all a practical man, it had suddenly come to Benjamin one day that Rachel and Rebecca should be capital assets, and yet he had been forced to admit that perhaps neither of them was marriageable, despite his fortune. Both were a bit ungraceful, and Rachel was terribly plain to boot. While Rebecca was lovely enough, she was sickly. In any marriage, both girls would be expected to produce sons and heirs, and there was considerable doubt as to whether Rebecca could fulfill that role. A few years of schooling though, Benjamin said, would provide them both with poise and grace. They would learn to manage a large estate and be prepared to assume their proper niche in society.

And that was why I sent Rachel away to school, he ended. Not just for the sake of her education alone, but more because I wanted to give her every advantage. I realize that little can be done about her appearance, but perhaps her position as our daughter will  . . .

Benjamin left the sentence unfinished. Do you understand now, my dear? he asked his wife.

She did understand, and he was probably right, Louisa thought. But to be so businesslike about it all  . . . What was it he had said? Capital assets? She shook her head, and Benjamin, noting it, covered her hand with his.

I know that her departure upset you greatly, dear, but it had to be done. I intended for Rebecca to join Rachel at Miss Phillipps’s also, but then she had that bad winter two years ago, and I see now it cannot be.

No, in Rebecca’s case, they would have to hope that beauty alone would suffice. Rachel would be home in the spring, and perhaps then, she could convince her sister to modulate her voice and descend a staircase in a ladylike manner, without raising her skirt to show most of her leg.

A racket from the hallway interrupted their conversation; the maids were bringing steaming buckets of water up the backstairs for Rebecca’s bath. It would soon be time to dress for the evening dinner party. Benjamin kissed Louisa’s forehead as she left the room. While she was not upset, just now, all the same, it would be nice when Rachel returned home again. Louisa had missed her firstborn sorely.

She went out into the hall and then stopped, standing quietly for a long moment, then turning, went back into the study.

One last question, Benjamin. Why did you instruct Miss Phillipps’s to keep Rachel at the school through her holidays and over the summers? Surely a homecoming would not have upset your plans.

Her husband turned to stare out the window, just as Louisa had done a short time before. I would never have had the courage to send her back, my dear, if she had ever repeated that dreadful scene.

Pensive, Benjamin spent the rest of the afternoon in the study, trying to complete his paperwork before retiring to his room to dress for dinner at Guersten Hall. As he shaved, he wondered just why that great house drew him so. It was puzzling, in view of the beauty of his own estate. Except for sons, and a continuing heritage here in the midlands, Benjamin’s roots were about as deep as they would ever become, he supposed, for one not born gentry. He could not fathom his feelings; he did not really try.

He left his bedroom later, dressed in buff-colored trousers and a rich brown frock coat. In the end though, he had to wait for both his wife and his daughter. He fumed, for Benjamin disliked tardiness, and checking the time frequently on his heavy pocket watch, he paced the large entrance hall with his greatcoat slung over his shoulder. Finally, the ladies descended the stairs together, but not before Benjamin’s ill humor surfaced.

"Dammit, Rebecca! You’ve spent all day getting ready, and still you can’t be on time!"

Rebecca laughed merrily and, picking up her skirts, dashed down the remaining stairs and planted a loud kiss on her father’s cheek. But, Father! Wasn’t it worth it? I feel so beautiful tonight!

She was beautiful, and Benjamin’s anger faded quickly. The blue dress fit her perfectly, its bodice molding her young breasts tightly. She seemed to have filled out a little, he thought, watching her, as Louisa came down the last of the stairs, lovely herself in a gown of lavender brocade. Full puff sleeves and bared shoulders were flattering, and she smiled up at Benjamin, unable to decide whether it was father or daughter who was more excited about the evening.

The shiny phaeton was already waiting in the drive, and Benjamin hurried them into it. He preferred to handle the matched bays himself, for the journey to Guersten Hall was not a long one. The black-maned team would cover the distance in short order.

The Hall lay about two miles past the wooden bridge, and the phaeton wheeled swiftly through a long stretch of road wooded on either side by full-grown silver beeches with half-bare branches. The dirt road was firmly packed, and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves filled the night air as the carriage emerged from under the trees. Moonlight played across the fields to their left, and just ahead, the road turned to meet them in a sharp curve. Benjamin reined in the bays there, for many a light carriage had overturned rounding that curve, he knew. As they neared their destination, he sat up straight in his seat, gripping the reins tightly in his hands. His heart quickened, as it always did when he neared that great house. Suddenly, the phaeton crested a low hill. There was Guersten Hall!

CHAPTER TWO

The mansion was magnificent. The original Guersten Hall had been erected more than four hundred years before, consisting then of a castle-like structure and a cavernous Great Hall. The Great Hall still stood, though long unused, but all that remained of the fortress were two round castellated turrets that had been incorporated into the architecture of the present mansion after a disastrous fire necessitated rebuilding. That was more than two hundred years ago, and that George Guersten had spared no expense in the creation of an edifice many likened to a cathedral without spires. In fact, the huge second-floor salon was complete with a rose window.

In bright sunlight the bricks of the Hall would be mellowed and cream colored, but in the moonlight they appeared almost white, with long purple shadows flickering among the overhangs and window casements. Seven tall windows flanked each side of an arched double doorway, illuminated now by lighted torches, and on the second floor, three huge oriels projected from the front of the house, the masonry ornately carved below their window lights. Each bay had four tall windows, the outer two angled and paned with stained glass, whose colors reflected across the moonlit lawns.

High above the ground, the tiled roof sloped inward, its length broken by small dormers with latticed windows. This was the attic floor. There, thirty small rooms sat under the eaves, and in decades long past, all had been occupied by house servants.

Benjamin turned into the drive, passing by tall iron fences and heavy gates. He wheeled past the enormous chestnut tree his eyes had sought earlier that day from his perch atop the bluff, its girth tremendous, its branches spreading easily twenty feet around.

Stones snapping sharply under the weight of the carriage, they ambled up the long drive to a high porte cochere that loomed ahead of them on the dark side of the house. It was attached to the end of the building like an afterthought, and in truth it was, for George Guersten’s mother had insisted on its construction when she first came to Guersten Hall as a young bride. She had refused to use the double-doored front entrance, no matter how ornate, because it opened directly onto the manicured lawns. She much disliked the wind and inclement weather and was fearful the sun would blemish her alabaster complexion.

Tonight, every window on the lower floor blazed with light, and many on the upper floors as well. Lighted torches had been hung on the round stone pillars, and Benjamin halted the carriage in their meager light. A groom appeared silently from out of the darkness to steady the bays, and Edward Guersten himself suddenly stepped onto the threshold of the stone archway, the heavy oaken door thrown open behind him. Clambering down from the phaeton without waiting for assistance, Rebecca sped to his side and impulsively threw her arms about his neck. In deference to her father, Edward merely brushed her forehead with his lips while artfully disengaging himself from her arms. Indignantly, Rebecca threw back her curls and swept haughtily past him, but she was smiling, and Edward knew she was not angry, for they loved each other dearly.

Entering the house as a group, they proceeded through a long gallery that extended the length of its front, balanced at the far end by a matching doorway that opened onto the formal gardens. At either end, a wide circular staircase with marble steps rose to the second floor. Tall suits of armor and chain mail lined the walls, interspersed with framed portraits of Guersten ancestors, long since dead, all illuminated brightly by hanging lamps and crystal chandeliers.

Halfway down the gallery, the little group turned and entered an immense reception hall whose frescoed ceiling soared majestically two stories above them. A grand staircase of sculptured marble dominated the space beneath. Along the sidewalls, life-size statues on high pedestals were spaced, and high above them hung four large tapestries representing the family ancestry.

Their cloaks were taken just as Edward’s father appeared at the top of the high stairs. The old man descended slowly, as his daughter hovered close behind, although he refused any offer of assistance and tottered stiff-kneed down the stairs by himself. It had been nearly eighteen months since either Benjamin or Louisa had seen George last, and both were unprepared for the change in his appearance.

George Guersten was seventy-five years old. His hair was snow white, short and thick around his neck and ears, thin and unkempt across the crown of his head. Always portly, he still had an ample rounded paunch, but somehow he seemed shrunken, thought Benjamin, watching him, and now he walked with a pronounced shuffle.

George’s pleasant countenance remained unchanged though; the pink face was still round and cheerful, the twinkling blue eyes still clear. He was given to much animation, his conversation well punctuated by quick movements of his head and broad hands, and despite his advancing years, he was still sharp and alert. His mental faculties were as keen as ever.

Louisa had always been fond of George, for he was truly a kind and gentle man. In her eyes, his only fault was his sons; they were given to arrogance, and both were familiar faces at London’s gaming tables. Save a matter of months, Ermaline, George’s only daughter, was the same age as Rachel. And Rebecca and Ermaline were soon seated on a small settee in a corner of the room, their heads together, gossiping about the latest London fashions. Ermaline was more than a little plump, with reddish-blond hair worn severely parted and restrained by a narrow ribbon. Her dress of gray silk had long sleeves and a high neck, and without adornment of any kind, it flattered neither her coloring nor her figure. She too could be rude and unpleasant at times, Louisa knew, but tonight Ermaline had chosen to be friendly, and the two girls were chattering amicably.

I’ve not been into London for several months, said George when they were settled with goblets of fine Madeira. I understand many changes are taking place.

Not just in London, George, but up and down the entire country, replied Benjamin.

He knew. He had just returned from a fortnight spent in Liverpool, where his firm had contracted for more warehouse space. There was no doubt about it, he stated flatly; the railroads would continue to bring great change to England. They had already done so in many of the shires, where the workforce was changing from agricultural to industrial. As the factories increased production, they required more and more workers, and men and women were leaving the farms and dairies in droves. Around the new factories and mills, the villages and towns were changing rapidly, too. With some mills already operating two and three shifts, hordes of workers were crowded into unhealthy tenements. Sniffing out profits, the mill owners themselves had purchased large tracts of land and constructed row upon row of cheap wooden tenements, back-to-back, all sharing reeking communal privies. Undoubtedly, Benjamin added, there would soon be many new social problems to contend with—housing, sanitation, education, and public health.

Edward concurred with Benjamin’s assessment in passing, remarking that sooner or later the workforce itself would reject the standards imposed upon it. Had not some of the mills already suffered labor disputes, strikes, and lockouts? There had been violence; there would be more.

In the city itself, Benjamin went on to say, there was much new construction as rat-infested buildings, decrepit and ancient, were torn down and replaced with vast warehouses and other handsome new structures, many three and four stories high. New hotels and fashionable shops rose from the